Pro Patria Mori
by lil-miss-chocolate
Summary: A tale of two soldiers, who came together in the trenches of the First World War. Will they find each other again in a time of peace? AU


**Author Notes: The first two instalments were written as drabbles for the 30 Days Of Puckurt fic-a-thon in June. I wanted to continue the story (and received a lot of requests to do so), but couldn't do it justice in drabbles, so the final section of this is in place of my last few drabbles – I manhandled this for a long while before I was satisfied with it.**

**Part 1**

_Dover, February 1915_

Second Lieutenant Kurt Hummel stepped cautiously along the gangplank of the great Navy transport ship that was to take him across the English Channel to France. This was his first post, his first command. He, along with all the other lads from Downing College, Cambridge, had passed out only a week ago.

As he made his way towards the deck, Second Lieutenant Hummel tripped over on the wet surface.

A hand immediately flew out, catching him by the elbow and setting him steadily on his feet.

Second Lieutenant Hummel turned to see the cheerful face of his batman, Private Noah Puckerman, with a pair of duffle bags slung across his broad shoulders.

"Don't worry, sir, you'll lick 'em into shape. Just like you did with me last night," Private Puckerman said in his cockney accent.

Blushing slightly, Second Lieutenant Hummel turned back towards the ship, trying desperately to put the memory of last night's escapades aside and concentrate upon boarding the ship without making an utter fool of himself.

**Part 2**

_London, 1920_

Captain Kurt Hummel stood among the crowds at Westminster and watched the hearse roll past. The coffin that rested upon it contained the body of an unknown soldier, one of the many thousands lost during the terrible Great War. The list of missing soldiers, fate unknown, was so long that it defied comprehension.

But it was only one of those names that Kurt cared about. The name iNoah Puckerman/i. It was three long years since he had seen his faithful batman and lover – he had been laughing and joking with the rest of the men. Then explosions had erupted everywhere, and everyone had been lost in the smoke and the dust.

Kurt had been found unconscious, and taken to a French field hospital. He tried to find out what had happened to his men, most especially Noah, but lines of communication were terrible, and the generals had had more important things to worry about than one small squadron of missing men.

Kurt had recovered quickly, and been ordered to a new post, slowly working his way up the ranks. He had carried on, as an Englishman always must.

But he never forgot his first batman, the one with the cheeky grin and the loving heart. The one who made him forget about life, about fighting, about war, and showed him the pleasures that were there for the taking, if only you opened your eyes and took them.

He gazed upon the coffin, wondering, as did so many around him, whether it contained the body of his own loved one.

He realised that, just the same as with every other grieving soul, he was never to know the fate of the man he loved.

A few hundred yards further down the way, on the opposite side of the road, Corporal Noah Puckerman came to the same sad realisation.

**Part 3**

_The Cenotaph, London, Sunday 14th November 1954_

Kurt Hummel took his place proudly among the parade of ex-servicemen. Fifty nine years old, he looked barely older than forty five – time had been kind to him. Only the slight crook in his back belied his age.

The column of men trailed back over a mile, filling the London streets as they prepared to march past the Cenotaph memorial after the short service with the realm's new queen.

A hush fell over the crowd as the young queen stepped out of the Foreign Office. She was simply dressed in a black skirt, jacket and hat, black handbag over her arm – a scarlet poppy the only spot of colour in her attire. The Royal family assembled in front of the majestic memorial, their equerries each carrying a wreath.

Kurt stood to attention as the bell of the Palace of Westminster began its well-known chimes. As the bell chimed the first note of the eleventh hour, a field gun fired, and there was silence from the massed crowds. Ten more strikes of the hour, and there was absolute quiet.

Every man, woman and child, all across the country, from London to Cornwall to the far corners of Scotland, was silent, thinking of the many thousands of servicemen the country had lost in those few years since 1914.

Each of the men who stood there, ready to march, thought of those friends they had lost. Good men, all willing to die for their country, all of whom had paid the heaviest price for their loyalty to their sovereign and homeland.

Kurt thought of all those boys he had lost on that terrible day in 1917. He had commanded them through thick and thin, through all the hazards and toils of the trenches. They had lost many fine men along the way, but the core of men had remained. That day, he had lost them all. Some of them may have made their way to safety, some of them may have survived… Kurt doubted it. It had been the purest good fortune that had saved his life upon that fateful day.

And then, as it did every year upon this date (and quite frequently in between times, as well), Kurt's mind turned to his batman. Noah Puckerman, the cockney lad who had grown into a man in those trenches – in more ways than one, Kurt thought, a fleeting smile glimmering across his lips. To the rest of the men, he had been Puck, always game for laugh, no matter how cold and miserable he may have been. But to Kurt, he had been Noah, in those stolen moments they had shared together. Noah the laugher, Noah the lover. Noah, who was there to support him, whatever horrific tidings might befall.

And Noah had been his. In those moments when the horror of it all became too much, and Noah had screamed in his sleep, the nightmares of the day refusing to depart with the setting sun – Kurt had been there to hold him through the night. Kurt had been there to help him remember the joys and pleasures that could be found, just as Noah had taught him.

Whenever Kurt had been despondent, losing his mind from the fear of the responsibility of keeping the men safe under his command, Noah had been there to reassure him, to comfort him, to remind how well he had served his men, keeping so many of them safe while in that godawful place.

But in the end, Kurt thought, he had failed them all. The command had come to advance, and he taken them up, up and over the barricades into No Man's Land. And all hell had fallen upon them.

Kurt thought of the immortal lines penned by Laurence Binyon, remembering each of the boys he had followed over the top:

_They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old._

_Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn._

_At the going down of the sun, and in the morning_

_We will remember them._

The gun fired again, bringing Kurt out of his memories of the past, and The Last Post rang out upon the bugles. All of those who had served knew the tune well; it was enough to bring tears to the eyes of many present.

The queen stepped forward, her movements dainty, and laid her wreath at the foot of the great edifice built of Portland stone. She stepped back, and bowed her head, showing deference to all of those who had died for the sake of the country they all held so dear.

As the other members of her family placed their wreaths, hushed chatter began to break out among the crowds, eager for the column of men to start their march past the Cenotaph. They wanted to pay tribute to the men who had fought and returned.

The men in Kurt's section were all veteran servicemen, men who had served in the military for decades, even after the war. Each one of them was wearing at least four medals. Some for valour, some for long service, some for devotion to duty. All hard earned and paid for with blood.

Glancing at the chest of the man next to him, Kurt did a double take. There, glinting in the cold autumn sun, was a Victoria Cross. The highest award for bravery the British military had to offer.

The man who wore it was tall, and he was standing to attention, gazing over the heads of the men near him to the rows of miners – during the Second World War, many of those who were called up had been sent to work in the mines instead of to the front. None of them had been so foolish as to believe that it would be any less dangerous.

The man glanced down, noticing the line of Kurt's gaze, and his inquiring expression.

"I got the VC in Ireland in '21," he explained shortly. "Six of my lads were trapped, under heavy fire, so I went in to bring them out. Nearly lost my leg, but I got 'em out."

Kurt nodded, then proffered his hand to shake, introducing himself. "Kurt Hummel. Formerly Major General Kurt Hummel, previously of the 4th Regiment of Foot, The King's Own. How do you do?"

This time the man with the VC did the double take. He took Kurt's hand in his own and looking wonderingly into the aging man's glasz eyes. The face he saw was lined, and worn, but well cared for.

As he held Kurt's gaze, he thought he saw a faint glimmer of recognition there.

Kurt looked for the first time at the face of the man. There was something familiar about it, the shape of his jaw and cheekbones teasing at the edges of Kurt's memory. It reminded Kurt of a face he had once loved. A face he hadn't seen in so very many years. A face for which Kurt had long given up the search.

Kurt's right hand held tight in his own, the man with the VC said his own name.

"Noah Puckerman."

Kurt gasped. "It's you…is it really you? It's been so long…"

"As you knew me, I was Private Puckerman, batman to Second Lieutenant Kurt Hummel."

With a wicked grin, Puck leaned forward slightly. "That wouldn't happen to be you, now would it?" His cockney accent had softened over the years, but it was still there.

Kurt moved his hands to gently cup Noah's face, though he was still standing a respectable distance away.

"Can it really be you? My same old Noah? I thought… I thought you had died… the rest of the men…"

Noah took both of Kurt's hands in his own. "I'm here, sir. It's me. Same old Noah… well, maybe a bit older now."

A look of almost despairing longing came over Kurt's face as he resisted the strong urge to throw himself into the Noah's arms.

"It's you… it's really you," Kurt said, gazing in wonderment at the face he had loved so well.

For the first time, Noah's voice wavered as he said, "And it's your own self, too, sir."

"The very same," Kurt whispered, Noah's hands tightly in his grasp. "Noah, is there… have you…?" He couldn't make himself form the words, so he turned Noah's hand over to look at his ring finger. Kurt ran his fingers over the bare skin there.

"Don't tell me I have to lose you again, Noah," Kurt pleaded. "Is there…"

"No-one. There's no-one."

Kurt sighed with relief and tightened his grip, smiling determinedly. "I'm won't lose you again. I can't."

"Never, sir. Never."

They were still standing, hands clasped together, grins broad, when the command came to start marching.

Hand in hand, they marched past the great stone monument to those that had been lost. In the crowd of people, nobody noticed the two old militarymen in the centre, unable to keep suitably sombre expressions on their faces.

For those two men, it was almost as if the intervening years had never been. Neither had found anyone who came as close to capturing their heart as the man who had been by his side at the time of the greatest peril they had ever known.

They knew now that no-one ever would.


End file.
